Empathatic Response
by fakeasain56
Summary: Ever since he could remember, he could feel people's emotions. It's not always for the best...


When Lestrade was five years old, he fought and cried whenever he had to go nearby a smooth looking banker, the only coherent words dropping from his mouth of, "That person is bad! They feel dark! I don't like them!"

A few years later, the banker was charged for fraud and the death of his wife.

* * *

><p>Greg Lestrade was ten when he realized not everyone could tell who was bad and who wasn't just by spending a few minutes in the room alone with them. He didn't learn how to shut up about it until three months after his tenth birthday his mother sent him to a therapist.<p>

He took an instant dislike to the emotions pouring off of her. There was boredom and exasperation.

He perched on the chair he was a little too small for, legs kicking at the air. A smudge of dirt streaked down the side of his face, and he had a plaster stuck to his nose from where roughhousing had gotten a little too rough.

Her emotions shifted as he scowled petulantly at her, flashing into irritation. "Now then Greg."

His scowl grew more pronounced- only his mother was allowed to call him Greg. "Geoffery please." He insisted quietly.

The irritation grew sharper. "Geoffery then." She was smiling at him, but the smile was so fake it hurt to look at it.

"Now then Geoffery- your mother came here saying that you're antisocial?"

Geoffery's arms crossed in response, eyes narrowing at the woman in a way he knew his father did to guilty people often. He hadn't liked them, because they didn't like him back. The black anger and ugliness and anger at him had made him hold back on greeting them in the first place.

He had attempted to assuage the black anger into something more like grey neutrality, but he could barely stand to be around that blackness. It was something that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

"They don't like me." He calmly announced like only a child could possibly say.

"You don't know that-"

"I do. They don't like me like you don't like me. The exact shade of blackness."

The next few months of therapy stomped him out of ever again assigning anything for the emotions he knew, and to ever again state the emotions he knew people were feeling out loud.

He also learned how to work past the times when emotions zinged through the air.

* * *

><p>He watched his wife with overshadowed eyes, searching for the shade of red love that once surrounded her. Now there was only purple indifference, and a dark grey of growing anger.<p>

He knew the reason why, but didn't know how to assuage it.

He loved his job- loved his ability to make a difference.

It meant long hours however, and slowly red faded to purple, bringing life to a grinding halt. He didn't know how to change the colors- he never did.

So the day the colors changed into the thick purple of someone planning to run away, he didn't protest.

He simply came home one day to an empty house, set down his take-out, and started in on it.

He had done his own mourning for her a long time ago.

But still, as he sat here in this emptiness, without the usual colors and tastes surrounding him, he found himself bitterly hating his 'gift'.

That night he didn't sleep.

* * *

><p>Crowded areas always made him off kilter. The various emotions got mixed up and muddled, driving down into his brain, but generally also reflecting them off with each other.<p>

It created a slightly muted, confusing swirl of emotions.

That's why he had no idea how to react when the druggie accosted him in the middle of the Yard, raving about how he was handling the murder wrong, and that it was actually the next-door neighbors wife that had done it.

He couldn't shift through all of the emotions to find the druggies- but there was the raging dark green of certainty.

He decided eventually that he would personally interview the woman- just to see what her reaction was.

He left that meeting with the black of guilt rolling off her in waves.

* * *

><p>He eventually managed to find the druggie- more like the druggie found him.<p>

He stopped in front of his home, staring curiously at his doorway- he could feel something on the other side. It was such an unusual state of matters that he paused for a moment.

At last he turned the key, pushing on to his living room.

The druggie was there, laid out on his sofa, leafing through the case he had left behind. The papers slammed down onto the table, and druggie and copper stared at each other.

There was a maelstrom of emotions flooding his living room, making it hard to concentrate. He could feel confusion, laced with a tiny thread of worry, cockiness, and anger- it was mostly confusion however.

He stared down at the druggie for a moment, before shaking his head and heading for the kitchen- if he was going to deal with this raw emotion behind such a calm face (a juxtaposition that always set him on edge) he wanted tea- good tea.

The confusion and worry grew stronger as he rummaged around for the tea, and pulled it down out of the cupboards. "Now then- what are you here for?"

"I came," the smooth voice almost made him forget about the emotions whirling around the teen on his couch, "To understand why you actually took my word back there. It showed an unexpected streak of brilliance that police are not normally known for."

The kettle was set on the stove, full of water.

"I took it because I was stumped." It was the truth- just not the complete truth. He had long stopped being concerned about telling the whole truth however. He didn't need to be committed for insanity.

"Besides- there was something about you that caught my attention."

"I see." Sherlock sounded perfectly uncaring, but the confusion had been replaced with surprise. Obviously not expecting such an answer then.

The kettle whistled merrily, and he poured out the water into a cup, chucking in the tea as well.

"Would you-"

"Yes please. Three sugars."

He chucked it in, preferring his tea without sugar for now- he had to go to bed sometime tonight, and he'd prefer not to do it hyper active.

"You were married once- she left you, and you expected it."

His breath blew out. "I'm not stupid- I could recognize the signs."

Cold eyes, and a whirling maelstrom regarded him for a few moments. The kid wasn't even beginning to become uncomfortable at his line of questioning- someone who didn't care about others emotions then. He could sympathize with that.

Acceptance- an odd emotion if there was ever one- grew. "By the way- about this case-"

"No." The response was instantaneous. "You get drug free then I'll listen to you."

"Excuse me?" Anger, burning away any acceptance. Lestrade ignored it easily- he was always surrounded by anger. It was surprising to have any other emotion directed at him.

"Nobody will accept anything from a strung out druggie. And neither will I. Say what you like, but I'm not accepting it."

Anger being replaced with belligerence- and annoyance. Accepted, acknowledged-

The kid knew exactly what he meant.

"Very well then- I'll think about it." He hesitated, worry threading through, "You will listen to me if I do, right?"

He met the kids eyes then, and smiled with all the assurance he could- "Yes."

Surprise again flickered across the kids emotions, as eyes evaluated him, as if tearing him apart piece by piece.

"Very well then. But Lestrade- I suggest you take a closer look at these cases, you forgot about their secret lovers."

With that last parting shot, the kid vanished.

* * *

><p>He reappeared only two weeks later, shaking, shivering, and almost out of his mind raving. The pain that wrapped around him like a visible corona nearly made him take a step back. As it was, he took a step forward, pulling the kid into his apartment.<p>

"You feel horrible." It was the first word out of his mouth, but the kid didn't notice what he was saying.

"Two weeks. No drugs. Cases. Now."

There was raw desperation at his edges, battling with the pain. He settled the kid onto the couch, dragging a thick duvet out of a closet and settling it onto the kid. The kid blinked at him, surprise surfacing at the care.

He next dumped one of the smaller cases on the kids lap. The kids trembling hands opened it up, desperation and pain fading slightly.

That allowed him to breathe just a little easier, letting his mind sort itself out. He needed to bring the pain down to a more manageable level, to ease both of them. "Does anybody know you're here?" He questioned this reflexively.

"No. Not even my brother. If he knew I escaped his facility to come here he will undoubtedly be mad." There was a sudden flicker of worry. "You're not going to contact him are you?"

The kids emotions concerning his brother were drowned beneath the pain, but he forced himself to concentrate, attempting to sort out all of the emotions. There was anger, hatred, worry, and shame.

He didn't want his brother to see him like this. "I made certain to take the back alleyways, avoid cameras. He might connect you to me, but unlikely."

The confidence was back- he knew what he was talking about.

Lestrade couldn't help but find himself simply accepting this.

* * *

><p>He should have known it wouldn't be easy.<p>

He had been forced into four different conferences, which were quite probably the worst of all groups. All of those emotions were focused into a single line, amplifying and building off each other.

Just one conference usually left his mind in tangled knots that didn't soothe until he was at home alone.

But instead of his usual sanctuary of home he had a druggie going through the final, most painful stages of detoxing. There was no way to ease his thundering mind.

Sherlock clung to the cases like a thirsty man to water- it was the only way to even begin to ease the maelstrom of emotions that floated around him.

Lestrade stopped on the middle of the street, dragging a hand through his graying hair- the combined emotions were still rattling through him- he could still feel the focus…

A nearby pay phone rang. He didn't notice it, attempting to clean out his brain. It was difficult- he was still in a semi crowded street, the emotions crashing and swirling through his mind like it was some kind of sewer drain.

He stumbled away, heading for the park- a line of pay phones attempting to get his attention ringing forlornly.

He had almost reached the park, the next best thing to home to allowing his mind to clear out, when a black car pulled up, physically blocking his way into the park. He stared at the cars sleek black lines, wondering distantly whether or not he could convince the two people to stop rolling their eyes at him.

The door popped open to a rather frustrated young woman. "Detective Lestrade, please get in."

"No." The park- freedom- just a few feet away-

A hand descended between his shoulder blades, shoving him directly into the car. He rolled up onto the seat as the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone with two similar emotions of derision. He groaned, hands coming up to cover his eyes and soothe away some of the stress.

At the very lest in the car emotions were muted. It allowed him to get a bit better grip on his mind, clearing it to deal with the emotions that would shortly be assaulting him. He was being kidnapped, taken to who knows where, by someone who was obviously didn't care about the consequences…

His head fell back, hitting against the back of the seat. Further disdain floated from the girl beside him, as well as black anger. "What did I do to deserve this?" He asked the sky in general.

"We're here." The ladies cool voice was brisk, a sharp counterpoint to her sudden amusement.

He turned to the window, peeking out. A warehouse. Oh for goodness sake.

Two big, burly men- yanks he supposed- were standing, waiting for him to get out of the car. There was no real killing intent, which was the only reason why he slid out of the seat and onto the pavement.

They led him in, and he flinched as the feeling of what had to be at the very least twenty men all focused intently on him poured into his mind.

The two men disappeared, taking up their own positions, as his eyes scanned the room to see a single man standing in the middle. He was leaning against an umbrella. An _umbrella_. It hadn't rained for nearly three days now- there was no reason for an umbrella.

"Hello Inspector." He dragged his attention back to the man, and stepped forward towards him.

Instantly the strength of the emotions increased. He stopped dead.

His mind was too rattled to deal with this. "What do you _want_?"

"Oh- nothing much. I just wanted to know the man whom Sherlock apparently decided to run away too. He was in a highly reputable rehab station before. Then he ran away to your house."

The man was approaching now, and Lestrade could feel the soaring emotions that drilled its way into his brain. The other continued on without respite, "That's why I called you for this little one on one talk-" Lestrade couldn't help the snort there.

A touch of surprise nudged against him- undoubtedly from the man before him. "Oh?"

"Try more around twenty men. Probably two snipers if I try anything against you- not going to kill me though. If you wanted to kill me you'd of not gone to all this trouble."

Uneasiness rolled through him, provoking him to further uneasiness, even though he stamped down on the emotions, they lingered, buzzing in the back of his mind.

"True. Twenty men exactly." The man's eyes were sharp and bright. "How did you know?"

"A lucky guess actually." The buzzing was beginning to overpower his mind, shrieking and clawing at his already lowered defenses. If this didn't stop soon, then he was going to throw up.

Actually- he eyed the polished shoes drawing nearer slowly. If he was going to throw up, then he might as well make it count…

"Please don't throw up on my shoes Inspector. Moreover- what is going on that you would feel the need to do so in the first place? We didn't drug you."

Heaven save him from know it all gits. "I don't do well in conferences. Moreover I have a druggie in my bed going through detox and insulting me at every available chance." There was a hint of fondness in those insults, not in the tone as it was in the emotions. "I think I have a reason to be irritable."

There was worry now in the emotional maelstrom- probably from the man in front of him. "Now then, are you going to let me go before he starts tearing apart my apartment?"

"Oh no, your services are no longer needed. He should be in my place within the next- ah, there we go." The man smiled at him, well-oiled satisfaction flowing through him. "If you know what is good for you, you won't speak to him again."

His eyes went heavenward for patience. "It won't work you know. He absolutely and emphatically doesn't want you to watch him through detox. He'll simply escape- and who knows where he'll go next."

Another sandpaper swipe of worry, but the face didn't allow a single emotion to leak through, coolly regarding him. "I find it hard to believe that you know what he feels like. I do trust he's assured you he's a sociopath?"

"Even sociopaths have feelings." Lestrade pointed out, "It's just that they don't connect to others emotions. Trust me my _dear_." The familiar word was half-laughed, half-sighed. "He won't like it."

The man's cold eyes lay on him for a moment longer. "What my brother likes and what he gets are two different things." He turned on his heel, stalking away.

Lestrade groaned in frustration, shouting after him, "I hope you realize that he's ashamed of you seeing him like that!"

That's about when a tranquilizer dart slammed into his backside, sending him spiraling into sleep.

He still managed a bit of smugness at the gawking stunned expression of disbelief.

* * *

><p>He woke up on his couch.<p>

He could feel Sherlock in the bedroom- apparently he struck a raw nerve with the brother.

Slowly he sat up with a groan, cradling his head. The two of them were alone in the apartment.

Oh goodie.

His eyes fell on a note, handwritten and placed on the table along with a cellphone.

He picked it, squinting at the written letters.

Something about how lucky he was, Sherlock would be left to him, blah-blah-blah-oh, and a number in case Sherlock got too ballistic and attempted to murder him. The phone was important then- very important.

So, happily he left it on top of the table where it would be the safest and moved into the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Years passed.<p>

Sherlock got himself a flatmate and went out on wild adventures. Nearly got himself killed a few times. His emotions became less wild, and more calm.

The creepy brother kept on popping up on weird random intervals, carefully in control.

Conferences continued to be a pain in the rear.

* * *

><p>He met Tobias Gregson, and realized to his shock that he couldn't feel any emotions flowing off of him.<p>

That set him on edge and wary like no one else ever had before.

Everyone else teased the two asking when they were getting married.

Lestrade vehemently denied it, while Gregson laughed.

John was a good fellow- one that a person could easily share a couple of pints with, and watch the telly with. He always had a pithy comment or two.

The only problem was, the roiling emotions that came along with it- and John only asked him out for that pint after a stressful day of conferences and he was already on edge. Still, focusing on John's calmer emotions always soothed his own.

Today however was one of those bad days when Sherlock seemed determined to bring everyone down with him, starting with John.

Lestrade stumbled out of the building with a building headache.

"Lestrade! Out for a pint I see shorty."

His head snapped up to see Gregson standing there, smirking confidentially at him. Gregson and his stupid, wonderful ability to not send him up the wall from the emotions buzzing around him.

Before he knew it, he had taken the five steps it took to be right in Gregson's personal space. The emotions floating around muted in response to the blankness. He sighed in relief. "I can't tell you how good it is to see your ugly block right now Gregson."

"I would wonder if I had died and gone to heaven, but since you insulted me…" Gregson trailed off meaningfully.

"Come off it Gregson. What are you doing around these parts?"

Eventually he managed to worm about a half hours time from the other man, his mind falling into the quietest, most restful state it had ever taken since the day he was alive.

He was going to enjoy getting to know Gregson, one fumble at emotions at a time.


End file.
